p a i n t

not one believed the palette in my dream:
i was the painter
running from rooftop to fire escape
splashing color on the world
without meter
without rhyme
with dream-reasons we denied
while the sun went down to the sound of our breathing
and the birds flew in circles through clouds
that never moved.


a quota for dreaming was a certain aim of mine,
goalies dressed in sleeping bags of black and green
with life-sized pucks slamming in and out of life
to the tunes of ponies from your night.
awakening, the noises i had known in my mother's kitchen
were not the sounds of the houses i was stretched upon;
the ice was harder than this brick silence
coldly disguising What Could Have Been
in the hours of prayer,
had i stayed in bed that morning of dreams
and painted only the sheets,
saved the world from this canvas we hide
as just one ugly hour's creativity.